The Archbishop of Canterbury on… those poor f**king Christians being persecuted with flags

20th June 2025

WAKING with a hangover so pulsating it has disabled streaming services in the Lambeth area, leaving providers such as Netflix and Disney+ owing thousands in compensation, I reflect upon yesterday’s events.

The weather being sunny, I decided, following a copious selection of libations, to pay a visit to the offices of the Spectator magazine. I made first for the desk of Fraser Nelson, who extended his hand. I promptly poked him in the eye.

‘What was that for?’ he hooted. ‘I was acting in self-defence. I have a right to defend myself,’ I informed him gravely. ‘You might have poked me in the eye.’

I then made for the kitchen, filled up a bucket of water and tipped it over the head of Melanie Phillips. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she shouted.

‘Not wishing to have a bucket of water poured over you by a Christian is the worst kind of anti-Christianism,’ I said. ‘Even if that is my own batshit definition.’

Upon which I took my leave and allowed my moral lesson to sink in. ‘Enjoy your garden party full of twats,’ I added.

With a chuckle at the thought of a moistened Melanie, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Alastair Campbell, writing in the Guardian, has deplored the fact that 93 per cent of our civil service, judiciary and media are privately educated. Britons who attended state schools are therefore excluded from power.

Fuck me, Alastair Campbell, you make a salient point! Rory Stewart, what do you think? Alastair makes a lot of sense, doesn’t he? Yes. Yes he does. But I feel the broader point here is: CUNTS ALIVE, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ON ANY PLATFORM SAYING ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING, CAMPBELL, YOU FUCK? If I were you I’d be hiding in a fucking hole in mortification at the thought of all those people bombed, shot and burned alive in Iraq. But no, we can’t escape your constant opining with your little helper Rory. I mean, seriously, where do you get the fucking nerve, you brazen, irreflective streak of twat?

An LGBTQ+ flag has been taken down in Matlock High Street, Derbyshire, after complaints from a nearby Christian bookshop, whose owner Judy Crook said she was ‘not happy with the gay rights situation’. The local council said they removed the flag, on the side of a building, in case someone climbed up and injured themselves.

Fuck this up to the hilt! If Jesus ever comes back the first people he’ll be throwing his fucking sandals at are the not-very-Christian Christians like Judy who’re obsessed with gays! As for the fucking pathetic excuse from the council – if some homophobe wants to scale a wall to remove a fucking flag, let them do it! A fractured spine or a couple of broken legs would be God’s mysterious plan anyway! I should fucking know! And naturally the whole thing has been couched in the usual bollocks about Christian beliefs being marginalised. Get a fucking grip, God-botherers! As persecution goes, it’s not exactly being fed to the fucking lions, is it?

This week’s Question Time featured a panel consisting of YouTuber ‘TommyInnit’, Jack Thorne, co-screenwriter of Adolescence, Labour MP Peter Kyle, Conservative Lord Willetts and Katharine Birbalsingh, ‘Britain’s strictest headmistress’. They discussed the challenges for young people of growing up in the 21st century.

Fuck me, another fucking triumph for BBC ‘balance’! If the panel was a see-saw in the school playground it wouldn’t do much fucking see-sawing. A raving authoritarian nutjob, a fucking pillar of Tory scum and a ‘Labour’ MP who isn’t going to let a trifling thing like genocide get in the way of being a Friend of Israel! I dunno what politics those other two have, but they’d have to be advocating hardline Marxist-Leninism and the execution of the top 5,000 wealthiest people in Britain to balance out that bunch of twatbags! Also, if you’re gonna have a panel about growing up in the 21st century, maybe have more than one panellist who actually did grow up in that fucking century?

Finally, a trailer has been released featuring actor Jeremy Allen White as Bruce Springsteen in a forthcoming biopic entitled Deliver Me From Nowhere.

Oh, for cunt’s sake, give us a fucking break from these shitty bandwagon-jumping biopics! Seriously, just toss right off into the fucking ocean! There’s about four or five old men taking up about 97 per cent of the attention of rock fans and this just adds to monopoly of senile tedium! I’d rather watch a fucking biopic of Bruce Forsyth! Actually, seriously, I fucking would! Plus I bet the film lasts about 19 hours in line with his fucking tortuously prolonged gigs!

Sourdough bollocks and up-itself toppings: The gammon food critic's artisan pizza experience

19th June 2025

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who is already planning to blow his reinstated winter fuel allowance on a massive piss-up

EVERYTHING’S got to be tarted up and made ‘special’ these days, hasn’t it? Even pizzas, beautiful in their simplicity, a timeless British classic.

I know my pizzas. Been living on a diet of Domino’s deliveries since the missus buggered off with her swanky twat of a boss who apparently ‘understands her emotional needs’. Bloke must have the patience of a saint, but I digress.

There’s an ‘artisan pizza ristorante’ opened round the corner from my flat. Apparently ‘artisan’ means it’s produced using traditional methods by hand. Like pizzas haven’t been made that way since God was a lad. But I’m giving it a go. There’s a free drink as an opening promotional offer.

I get off to a bad start when I rock up and ask for a Stella, only to be told the offer only applies to Italian booze. Pint of piss-weak Peroni it is then. I peruse the menu. There’s a meagre selection of starters, or ‘antipasti’ as the Eyeties insist on calling them. When in England speak bloody English, I say.

I skip the unappetising selection of olives, breadsticks and dips and go straight to mains. And by God, if their heads were any further up their own arses they’d be able to eat their tonsils.

All the bases are sourdough. I’ve had sourdough before and it’s dense as f**k, so it’ll be like trying to eat a paving slab. The toppings aren’t helping. One has ‘nduja’ on it, which I have to Google. Turns out it’s a soft, spreadable, spicy pork sausage, apparently. We had that when I was a kid. Came in a jar saying ‘Shippam’s Meat Paste’.

There’s a ‘garden pizza’ to pander to the veggie nutters. Who actually has courgettes, peppers and red onions in their garden? If it came from the back of my flats it’d be topped with empty beer cans, used johnnies and a broken shopping trolley.

And so it goes on. ‘Piquante’ peppers. Portobello mushrooms, like ordinary mushrooms are beneath them. Their pork meatballs are ‘proudly sourced from local organic farmers’. Like I give a shit. I don’t need to know a pig’s home address and dietary requirements to eat the f**ker.

I opt for the pepperoni special to play it safe. It’s ‘baked in a traditional wood-fired oven’. Obviously gas isn’t fancy enough. Wankers.

When it arrives the base is, predictably, hard as a brick, and the toppings so measly you’d think there was a war on, not that the Italians would be doing much. A smear of tomato sauce. Couple of blobs of mozzarella. A grand total of six pieces of pepperoni. It’s practically translucent.

I glumly finish it and the base is sitting so heavily in my gut I skip dessert. Don’t think I’ll be able to eat again for a week without giving myself a hernia on the bog.

My verdict? Well, at least they’re having a go, but is it Domino’s gold standard? Is it bollocks.